What's in a Name?
by BalloonCow
Summary: Cory's double date with Shawn takes a nosedive when the girl's name turns out to be Veronica, so he freaks out and sabotages it. It's a long, awkward ride home.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Boy Meets World, Cory, Shawny, or any of its characters. No profit was made from this work of fiction.

This focuses on events from "Chick Like Me" and maybe a few mentions of less-important stuff from episodes following that. And BOY does it deserve its M rating.

Big BIG hugs, kisses, teddy bears, and boxes of chocolate to enticing-affair, who didn't run away screaming when I told her I was writing this (just said it was ruining her childhood LOL). She was like my copilot during this whole process, urging me on by saying awesome things like "don't change it!" and "keep going!". Without her encouragement and consoling cyber back pats, I doubt this would have gotten anywhere.

* * *

This was a bad idea. A mistake.

He shouldn't be here, really shouldn't have even been allowed _inside_.

Not for at least another five years, if the legal drinking age was to be referenced. And certainly not in the middle of the week. Well, technically the middle of the week fell on a Wednesday, and seeing as how it was only Tuesday that wasn't entirely accur-

"Watch out, kid."

Cory nearly slips on a stray specials menu in his haste to clear the doorway for the burly man behind him, who easily takes up the entire entrance. Despite the effort, he still finds himself sideswiped by a leather-fringed sleeve, and then bulldozed with a knockoff handbag as the man's wife brings up the rear.

Something in his throat locks up around the tang of cigarette smoke left in their wake, and he desperately swallows around it. Only when the couple is firmly seated at the bar and far, far away does Cory deem it safe enough to peel himself from the wall.

Because that's who he is. Cory's a play-it-safe kind of guy. He tended to stay away from places like this and people like-well, _that_. Cory's typical night included studying with Topanga, maybe grabbing a bite at Chubbie's if he was feeling particularly daring. But this place...

This place that was an hour away from home, that smelled like a fast food joint after three AM...this place was _no _Chubbie's.

And a glance down into the dining area showed no sign of Topanga. Just Shawn.

Shawn with his stupid ideas about meeting someone else. Shawn with his "it'll be fine" and "just show up and I'll do the rest". Shawn with his obnoxious ability to spot Cory's hiding spot at the top of the stairs-_aw crap_.

He makes a valiant attempt to duck around the corner and blend in with the vomit-stained wallpaper, but wouldn't you know Shawn isn't colorblind and ends up spotting him anyway.

He saunters over, all swagger and smiles and other S words Cory thinks he should know, but doesn't. "That was an awfully long bathroom break," is all he says. And when it's evident Cory has no plans to turn around, five fingers fist the back of his shirt and make sure it happens.

Unlike Cory, Shawn seems to be having no problem breathing in the air here, and the people still funneling in behind them customarily sidestep Shawn without so much as rustling his leather jacket. There's a spike of jealousy in the realization that his best friend can look cool in any setting.

It makes Cory feel even more out of place, and a touch annoyed so he shrugs off the hand. "I'm having second thoughts about this whole thing."

Shawn segues easily into his next cool gesture by running a hand through his hair. Once. Twice. Had he gone for three Cory may have just broken it off because he was in _no mood_.

Something must translate through Cory's face since he immediately stops primping, and settles for crossing his arms in a way that pulls leather tight around his shoulders. "Cor, you had second thoughts five minutes after I got in the car. And _third_ thoughts, and _fourth _thoughts."

"So?"

"So _stop thinking_!"

Cory's lips spread into a thin line. He takes a step back, resituates, unconsciously mirroring Shawn's stance. Except he's wearing a windbreaker and all the punctuation of the gesture is lost in the childish _swishhhh _of it all. It doesn't matter though; Cory's not going down without a fight on this one. "Listen, Shawn-"

But Shawn has none of it. Literally. The hand slapped across Cory's mouth sees to that.

"No, Cory. _You _listen!" And he really doesn't have a choice unless he puts his own hands over his ears, but they've already gotten a few head-turns at this point and he doesn't need people to think they were in the corner playing some bizarre version of face Twister.

So Cory listens. He listens while Shawn guilt trips him about what happened on their last double date, of how Cory _owes him_ one. He listens while Shawn talks circles around every possible doubt bubbling up inside his head. We drove all the way out here for this. Everything's fine. Wait 'til you see the girls! Total babes, Cor. _Total _babes.

Then, the real test of Cory's resolve:

"Hey, even if you hate everything about tonight, at the very least you're being fed at my expense. Just think about that."

Cory doesn't really have to. Shawn seems to know this, and releases his face promptly.

"I do like food."

Shawn flashes a smile, because he always wins, claps Cory on the back, then sort of uses it as leverage to steer him forward. As they pass, the blare of several bar patrons ordering at the same time urges Shawn's arm to loop around Cory's neck and drag him closer. Lips push against his ear, uttering a quick promise. "Trust me. You're gonna love her."

* * *

Cory hates it when Shawn's right. Because it usually means _he's _wrong.

For the record, he doesn't _love_ her. But when she slides out of the booth, pretty smile painted wide and hand reaching out like she's genuinely happy that Cory's there, well...it makes it really, _really _hard not to at least like her.

And like your typical lovesick teenager, the Topanga comparisons churn in his gut-_her hair, her skin, her eyes, her face_-and Cory nearly gives himself an ulcer trying to suppress them. It hurts. It hurts so bad, and unease returns to encase him like a bodysuit.

_She dumped you weeks ago. Get over it!_

_No Topanga, Cory. You promised. You _promised _me! And this time you're gonna mean it, right? Because so help me if you ruin another date night, Cor, so help me._

_C'mon! We're doing it. Just like you wanted. We're driving to a place far away, where no one will know us. You don't even have to be Cory! You can be anyone you want! You can be rich! You can-you can be...Italian!_

_Want me to call ya Fabio? 'Cause I'll call ya Fabio, just _please_!_

Cory really wants to know when he learned how to replay conversations in his head so vividly. As if the Shawn in front of him wasn't enough of a guilt-trip, now he has to worry about past-tense Shawn too? Well that's just great. Very nice.

With resolve forced upon him like an itchy sweater, Cory extends a hand just in time to keep things from looking awkward. "Nice to meet you. I'm, uh...my friends call me Fabio."

She laughs like that's not a big deal at all, shakes his hand like everything about tonight is gonna be fine. "Hi, I'm Veronica."

Something low in his back spasms at the name-_flinches_. At the same time his eyes unconsciously dart to Shawn's side of the table, where he's pressed in close to his date, their mouths pressed impossibly closer.

Cory blinks and the comparisons come rushing back.

Hair.

Skin.

Eyes.

Face.

No Topanga, he'd promised. But suddenly she wasn't the issue anymore.

* * *

After that, things get a little weird.

Veronica talks and Cory listens. Well, what Cory actually does is pretend to listen while his knee jiggles restlessly under the table. They've already ordered so his menu's gone, taking with it his excuse for avoiding eye contact. This leaves him wide open, and all he can do is smile every so often and mumble a quick _yeah_ or _nah _to keep the conversation going.

There's no way she's a Veronica, he thinks. With the way she flips her hair and toys with her bracelet shyly. Veronicas wore short skirts and dared you to say something about it. Veronicas were supposed to have raspy voices and sharp jaw lines.

Cory coughs around his drink then, soda burning like a dust storm in his lungs, leaving him hunched over with blurred vision and uneven breaths. A soft, feminine hand finds the center of his back.

"Jeez, are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says through a cracked voice. "Yeah, I'm good." Though his eyes flicker across the table again, lingering. Questioning. All the while, his brain screams _God, what is happening?_

Cory does avoid eye contact after that. With everyone. His leg shakes faster, thumbs ticking together in a way that does everything but divert attention. When she asks him again if he's okay, he leaps at the chance to explain the situation, lips practically tingling with the normalcy of forming Topanga's name.

He barely gets out the first syllable before a swift kick to his shin invites pain severe enough to garble the rest.

"_No_," Shawn hisses through clenched teeth, having apparently come up for air long enough to know what's going on. His date swoops in again, but he tilts his head so her lips fall on his neck, eyes cold and narrowed, daring Cory to try it again.

Cory, still wincing, holds the stare. He can't think of any reason to be loyal to Shawn anymore. Not one. So he opens his mouth again, fully intending to say his piece or leave the table completely.

But then the look on Shawn's face shifts into something softer. Something pitiful and pleading. _You promised_, he mouths, and Cory can _hear _the kicked puppy whether he spoke it aloud or not. Wonders how the hell Shawn can sound so miserable when a girl's pressing hickey after hickey into his throat.

And Cory _hates _Shawn in the moment he breaks down and surrenders by running a hand down his face, hates himself even more when he has to make up something about having low blood sugar. Veronica doesn't ask him anything else after that, doesn't say much of anything at all. Turns out that suits him just fine.

Only a few moments pass before he's shuffling out of the booth, Shawn doing the same to let the girls out. Because girls always go to the bathroom at the same time; it was like a rule. Neither of them say "we'll be right back" in that giggly, girly way and Cory's not even sure if they're coming back at all.

He watches Veronica walk away, tall fancy boots hugging her legs and smacking the floor with each punctuated step. They're almost the same. Maybe a bigger heel, he doesn't know. Just remembers Shawn wobbling in them on the stairs after biology. Just remembers slipping textbooks under one arm, reaching out instinctively and-

_Hey, watch the hands Cor. Don't wanna make Topanga jealous._

Okay, he's had enough.

When the girls finally do come back, Cory does something he should have done a long time ago. Something that makes Shawn lose both his smile _and _his swagger.

Cory sabotages the date.

* * *

Shawn barely makes it to the car, isn't even given time to shut the door before tires squeal and gravel _clunks _everywhere. Cory feels those eyes on him for several long seconds, presses his lips thin, readjusts his grip on the steering wheel. Neither of them say a thing.

Not until they roll to a stop at a red traffic light. Shawn shifts in his seat, with more noise than is actually necessary, until he's sitting sideways and facing Cory head-on. "You ready to tell me what that was all about?" His tone's clipped, each word enunciated. Foreboding, like a dam holding off a flood.

Like Cory would get punched in the face if he didn't have a damn good answer.

None of his answers will be the one Shawn's looking for, so Cory's ready to defend as he slowly shakes his head, says "never should have gone" and "it's a school night" and "I have a curfew".

Shawn doesn't punch him, just keeps staring because he knows Cory can't stand it, never could, and it's working because Cory's mouth moves to form words. Accusations, confessions, _something_.

But then the light turns green, something shifts, and Cory swallows everything back down.

Another three miles and Shawn gives it up, turns his body to look out the window, at the murals and graffiti lining the overpass above them. But whatever tension this eases inches right back up Cory's spine when he moves to dig around in the pockets of his jacket instead. There's a familiar _clink _and Cory's stomach plummets.

He can't seem to turn fast enough, arm flying out to knock the flask away from Shawn's lips just as he takes his first gulp. He doesn't think. His grip slips and he barely recovers the car before they smash into a pair of blinding headlights.

Shawn waits until the car's secured and then shoves him. _Hard_. "Christ, Cory. Would you just worry about yourself before you get us both killed?" It's failed intimidation, though, because Shawn's voice cracks halfway through like it used to when they were fourteen, and his hand shakes when he stuffs the flask back under his arm.

Cory can relate. The near-death experience has his heart still rattling in his chest, so it takes a little longer for him to collect himself and snap back. But when he does-"You know what, Shawn? That's your problem. Everything's always about you. All you care about is yourself! As long as you're having a good time, you don't-you don't give a shit about anyone else. You're supposed to be my best friend, yet you never listen to what I have to say-"

"Well I'm listening now! Still waiting on that lovely explanation you have for ruining my night. Oh wait, let me guess! It starts with a T and ends with an A-which under any other circumstances sounds like a _wonderful thing_."

And Cory knew it would come down to this. It always has and it always will. But that doesn't stop it from being a sore spot. "Don't bring her into this." It's half threat, half begging. Cory knows if their roles were reversed, he'd drop the subject.

Fact is, Shawn is still very much _Shawn_ in this situation, so he presses. "Oh, no. See _I'm_ not the one who brings her into this. Into _everything_! That's all you. With your moping and your complaining, just constantly! '_I can't do this, Shawn!' 'This is a bad idea, Shawn!' 'She dumped me, Shawn.'_"

Cory's grip is white-knuckled on the wheel. "Just stop."

"No! I'm not stopping because you need to hear this. You clearly aren't understanding that tonight wasn't about finding you a new wife. Nobody said anything about soul mates or marriage." Shawn moves to sit sideways again and Cory can feel the burn of his stare, even worse than before. "Tonight was supposed to be about having fun. Just you and me, like it used to be. One time. Just _once _before you're back with Topanga again."

Everything goes quiet after that. Shawn because he's said all he's needed to say, and Cory because he's still replaying the desperation in his voice when he'd said it.

He ends up shelving it, like he's done on the other handful of occasions Shawn's sounded like this, focusing instead on the familiar. The normal. "I don't think it's gonna happen this time, Shawn. I mean...you know it's over. You were there when she said it."

And just like that "cool" Shawn is back, running a hand through his hair and twisting to face the road again with a laugh. Not a "ha ha", but more of a "heh". He folds his arms behind his head, balances a foot on his knee. "Y'know it's crazy, how the whole world understands you're going to get back together. Everyone gets it, but you two."

It's Cory's turn to laugh-but-not-really. He's loosened up enough to sit an arm against the window and rest his forehead on the heel of his hand, suddenly exhausted. He doesn't dare take his eyes off the road, though. His blood pressure's still through the roof from before. "There's nothing to get, Shawn. It's said and done now."

"Yeah, but," and he says this while his teeth grip at a hangnail on the side of his thumb, "s'like TV. Told you that before-"

"And you were wrong!"

Shawn straightens, shoots air across his tongue like a whip crack, and Cory just barely hears something small ricochet off the dash. "Hey she came back, didn't she?"

"Under completely different circumstances!"

And then he has the nerve to shrug. "TV show logic is a fickle mistress."

Which leaves Cory caught between wanting to pop him one and wondering when _exactly_Shawn learned how to use fickle correctly in a sentence. He's ready to try both.

"Okay, in all seriousness," Shawn makes a mad dash for door number three, "Topanga's sixteen. She's left her family, as in the people who _raised _her, completely behind and the only other parental figure around is her aunt-who, I believe in your words, was described as 'a living, breathing black widow'..."

"Well she looks like a head-biter!"

"Right. So Topanga's in a vulnerable place right now. Just give her time. She'll come around."

Cory taps the steering wheel, flicking it with his thumb and hating that he's even _considering_-"You really think so?" And there it is, hope bubbling up in his chest like when he was four and thought he could keep the neighbor's puppy if he took off the collar and hid him in the closet.

"Yeah, Cor." Somehow it's reassuring even with Shawn facing the window. "I really do." Then as an afterthought, "Though actually it's not the black widows that bite off the heads. You're thinking of a praying mantis."

Stupid. It's so stupid and irrelevant and exactly what they need because the tension fizzles, lifts up, and suddenly Cory's laughing like he hasn't laughed in days, or weeks maybe. Then Shawn makes it worse by looking so _serious _and genuinely confused, and it's all Cory can do not to cry while wheezing out "thank you, Professor Hunter" between gulps of air.

But it's okay because then Shawn's right there with him, slumped back in the seat with shaking shoulders and mumbling "I don't even know why that's funny" over and over.

Cory doesn't know either. Just that this feeling of relief oozing like an egg cracked over his head-except not cold and gross, but gooey and encompassing-this feeling was what he's needed all night. All week, really. It's a welcome thing, an _encouraged _thing, a thing that loosens his lips just enough as he's floating down from the intense high. "So you wanna know the real reason I wrecked the date?"

Shawn tilts his chin up so his overdramatic whine gets absorbed by the roof of the car. "You don't understand. She was the hottest girl I've ever seeeeeen."

Now Cory would feel just plain awful if he hadn't heard those same words nearly every weekend for the past five years. "No, trust me. You're gonna laugh. It's ridiculous." Because it _was_, and only as the words form on the tip of his tongue does he realize just how much.

Hindsight is something they were supposed to learn last year, and probably did, but, well, Cory has a hard enough time remembering his locker combination. However, he does recall Shawn's comment about _behind_sight earning him a detention slip from their teacher, and later a date with Heather who sat in the front row.

In his peripheral Shawn's foot bounces atop his knee, waiting, and Cory pushes the words out before the awkwardness can occur to him again. "That girl you set me up with, did you catch her name?"

Of course not, Cory already knows that, but Shawn tips his jaw and points at his splotchy neck anyway. "I was a little preoccupied."

He smirks then, which only makes Cory want to tell him it looks like he'd been choked, just to make it seem less cool and knock the curve from his lip. "Her name was Veronica," he offers instead.

Shawn doesn't move, facially or otherwise. Cory gives it a minute, lets it sink in. And finally...

"So?"

Oh for crap's sake. Shawn never did make things easy.

"Veronica, Shawn! _Ver_-_on_-_i_-_ca_! God, every time I looked at that girl I just saw..." Heat creeps up the sides of his neck, the seatbelt suddenly irritating where it rests against his collar. He reaches to jerk it more toward his shoulder, feeling fidgety out of nowhere, and mumbles to a finish. "Don't act like you don't remember."

Shawn almost does, every muscle in his face clearly trying to piece things together as seconds tick by and Cory's stomach plays jump rope with the impending threat of having to _further _explain himself. Well, he won't. He'll drop the whole thing, is fully ready to when Shawn's eyebrows relax and his mouth quirks up fast like someone's tugging it with invisible fingers.

"Aw, come on. That was _forever _ago."

Two weeks is _not _forever ago, and Cory's ready to pull into a dollar store and buy a calendar just to prove it.

Shawn's not done though. He's eyeing Cory up and Cory's trying not to notice by reading road signs out loud, reassuring himself that they are actually heading the right way home. But it's impossible not to hear the slide of Shawn's ripped jeans on the seat when he sidles over to the edge of it, bypassing the armrest to plop an elbow on the center console and just _lean_. "Whasa matter, Cor? Still hung up on ol' Veronica, huh?"

Cory sputters, edging further against the window. "Wha-no! That's not what I'm-"

"Not that I can't understand why," he drawls, and Cory's pretty sure every tooth in his mouth is on display, but he refuses to look, "I _am _quite the catch."

"Shut up!" God he can feel the heat in his _face _now, and is quick to push Shawn roughly aside before he can too.

He easily rolls back into the seat, pliant and loosened by laughter, but Cory's still very much aware of the elbow remaining in place between them. So he's not fooled by the stretch of silence, and he's not at all surprised when Shawn swoops back in for seconds.

"So what was it? 'Cause I'm dying to know. Was it the hair? The clothes? The shoes? What?" But there's no _way_ Cory's going that in-depth, especially when it wasn't really anything, and yet _everything _at the same time. How did one go about explaining that? "Did she have an Adam's apple, because then I could see-"

"_No_!"

He was seriously regretting even bringing this up. The whole purpose was to get Shawn to stop ragging on him about the date, but here he was _still _ragging on him about the date, just in a different way that was by no means better. Hell, Cory thinks, this is worse.

_Much _worse, he corrects, as Shawn seems to be gearing up for round three. Except something's off this time.

This time Shawn's movements are fluid, subtle, and he props his chin up with his hand. When the words tumble out, they're not in Shawn's voice at all, "_Was she prettier than me_?"

Things like "_God_" and "_don't do that_" shoot out of Cory's mouth like a knee-jerk reaction, his entire body lurching as far away as possible while still keeping control of the car. He hates the residual tingle in his ear, even more than the overwhelming _tha-thump! _in his chest. It's so annoying that he moves to rub it against his shoulder, but the windbreaker only adds to the noise, wiping out the first half of whatever Shawn's saying.

In his normal voice, thank God. "-ly shit. You're really serious, aren't you?" He sounds really far away, and Cory supposes it has a lot to do with his current auditory issues, but maybe not. "So...it _wasn't _an accident when you kept rubbing up on me in chemistry?"

Shawn's curveball whacks Cory right in the throat and for an alarmingly long moment his next breath doesn't come. He's on the defensive so quick that he can't get a complete sentence out. "I wasn't-! No! I mean, _yes _it was an...but! You don't normally stand on that side of the lab table and..." Breathe. Inhale. "That walkway is narrow and you know it."

When Shawn just says "hm" with no witty quip or teasing attached to the end, Cory's grateful. It allows him to suck in a few quick gulps of air and hold them in his lungs until he's confident they won't come out staggered like puffs from a first cigarette.

At this point, even his mitochondria must be in knots because he's never been this uncomfortable in his _life_. He's sweating now, can feel it in his palms and neck and _everywhere_ as he painstakingly recaps that week at school. Because yeah, maybe hands touched a waist for support once or twice, and so what if he kinda bumped the sides of their hips together in order to pass by? That _didn't _mean he was trying to...and okay, there were a few times in the cafeteria when Shawn had his back to him and Cory would, y'know...look.

But it wasn't his fault! Shawn looked like a...well, like a Veronica. No one told him he had to wear _tight_ things or _short_ things or things that would turn Cory's head when displayed on a mannequin, let alone an actual _person_...

It's not like he was into-

Cory shifts in his seat, feeling prickly all over-like when there's no fabric softener and his stiff clothes rub his skin raw. Shawn's oddly motionless next to him, still half draped over the console. His silence, while welcome, is unnerving at the same time.

To make sure he's still alive, Cory risks a glance over. It takes a second, but eventually Shawn blinks and it turns out he's not lugging a dead body around, so that's one less thing on his mind. But just like that, another crops up. Shawn's seemingly fixated on Cory's leg, which gets him a little nervous.

Mostly because last time there was a wolf spider climbing up the side of his pants carrying about a thousand babies on its back.

So it's understandable when he surveys the road and nearby cars just long enough before dropping in a blind rush to examine his jeans. And-_oh_.

Oh _God_.

That's when it dawns on him. Shawn's not looking at his leg at all. Cory's entire body goes stone still and a fresh wave of heat warms his face, all the discomfort and prickly-ness suddenly making a whole mess of sense-too much sense-leaving him scrambling to jerk the end of his jacket across his lap with a clumsy hand.

Which makes him feel all of one percent better because the damage was done already and, oh God, Shawn had been _staring _at it for who knows how long!

The next time their eyes line up, _I'm a teenager so these things happen _is a loaded bullet of rationalization in Cory's mouth, but Shawn's first on the trigger.

"Pull over," he says, with flushed cheeks and a mouth full of cotton.

* * *

When Cory doesn't, Shawn makes him.

He doesn't go for the wheel. Instead a hand darts between Cory's legs, goes in straight for the kill. Shawn's palm is wide. All pressure and insanity, so swift, so persistent that Cory's head tips back while his foot rockets up from the gas pedal, sending his knee hard into the rim of the steering wheel. It hurts like hell and the car veers sharply. But that hand never lets up, not for a second.

Not until Cory stomps the brake so hard that Shawn needs both to stabilize himself against the dash while they rock to a stop on the shoulder. Even then, his recovery's quick and then he's unhooking his seatbelt and shrugging out of his jacket like it's routine, like it's _not a big deal _that he's planning on-

"Are you out of your mind?" Cory hisses, hardly finding the mental capacity to put the car in park, let alone analyze Shawn's motives. Adrenaline buzzes through his dick, alive with the feel of phantom fingers-_Shawn's _fingers-still wrapped around him. Something no one's ever...

God. It's messing with his head.

When Shawn kneels up in the passenger seat, hunched so he doesn't bump into the roof of the car, his fingers twitch like he's gonna reach for him again, and Cory panics. Shawn's torso bends and Cory snags him by the sleeve of his old Nirvana t-shirt, desperately holding him back even as answering wetness unloads into the front of Cory's boxers.

"Shawn, what are you _thinking_?" he tries again, sounding far less angry and much more like someone was spreading his toes really far apart.

And again, Cory imagines how if their roles were reversed he'd stop right there, too flustered by the reality of the situation and being _confronted _about it to push on any further.

And again, Shawn proves Cory should stop comparing them because they really are nothing alike.

He holds his ground, allows Cory to stretch the neck of his favorite shirt just so he can lean closer, eyes dark and voice low. "I'm doing this for you right now. You said that I only care about myself, that nothing else matters to me. I'll prove you wrong."

Cory wants to say no and that's not how things work, but he's overwhelmed and Shawn must know because he chooses then to move, shuffling until Cory hears knees against the console. And Cory _really _can't breathe this time, lungs puffed out and just holding the air captive now that Shawn's so close. God, he's close.

A hand grips Cory's headrest just as another lands on his thigh, becoming an anchor that keeps Cory's body pinned when it instinctively recoils. Then Shawn's weight shifts and Cory feels the pressure lighten, watches the fingers spread out and drift until just the tips graze him, dipping to follow the inseam up,

and up,

and up.

Cory can't feel the touch through the stitching, but somehow that makes it way worse and his skin reacts to every imagined brush of fabric until he starts believing he _can_. Close to the top, one of Shawn's fingers slips, pokes the crease of his thigh, and all the air gets shocked out of him at once.

Shawn pulls back, but not by far, hovering over him wide-eyed. "Okay?"

No. No, this was definitely _not_ okay by any normal standard. This was just crazy, and out of nowhere, and God he's so hard that the tip of his dick feels numb from being squished in his jeans for so long. But it still feels so _good_ and part of him spikes when he thinks that it's _Shawn _here with him and no one else-which takes him right back to no, this is probably not okay.

Shawn's thumb pushes slowly into the same spot from before, and the part of Cory hopelessly searching for answers shorts out. When Shawn does it again, harder this time and maybe inched up a bit, nudging just _there_, Cory releases the hold on his shirt, arm dropping to skate down Shawn's side and curl two fingers tight around his belt loop. It's answer enough. For both of them.

Cory refuses to look down, afraid he'll start shaking if he watches Shawn's hands unbutton, unzip, _unravel_. "Oh God," he groans, blood pounding in his ears as Shawn slips smoothly under the waistband, and again "Oh..._God_", when they're flesh on flesh, bare skin on bare skin, and Cory learns he's gonna shake regardless.

Shawn finds him, pulls his dick around until it's pointing upward, the head of it pushing just past elastic and cushioned against the bottom of Cory's white shirt, sticky and dark pink. The slit glitters with fluid just beneath the surface, and Cory watches Shawn studying it, like he's fascinated, leaning in close until Cory can feel him _breathing _on him.

And then it's pushing out, forming a liquid dome at the tip of his cock, growing large and larger still until gravity takes over and Cory prepares to explain another mysterious shirt stain to his parents.

Shawn's too fast for him. Cory swears he doesn't even see him move, lean in, tilt his head, _barely _registers that his tongue flicks out and then-

_Oh God. Oh fuck. This is real. This is happening._

His shirt's spared, but Shawn doesn't stop. That tongue stays on him, even as Shawn pulls Cory's boxers down and grips the rest of him in a sweaty palm. He jacks him slow, fuck it's so slow, but his tongue keeps swiping over the tip, hard and frantic and like the world is ending, sending all kinds of mixed signals. Good signals. _Amazing _signals.

When Shawn hollows his cheeks to suck, Cory's stomach pulls inward and something behind his balls vibrates like a flicked rubber band. Noises start falling out of his mouth, but they're nothing but background static compared to the soft parts of Shawn's mouth gripping him just tight enough to make nothing else exist in the world. Anywhere.

Shawn's lips slip down further and he jerks Cory's boxers back so his hand can do the same, rubbing low at the base and skidding a few fingers down to the loose skin below. His palm follows, cupping and pushing _up _until all of Cory's parts are smashed together.

A fresh wave of sensation tightens his groin unexpectedly, blood rushing and thickening, warmth pooling in his stomach with sudden purpose, sudden warning. Cory's hand tightens on Shawn's hip and Shawn pumps his mouth faster.

But no, that's not what-he's not _getting _it!

"Oh shi-! Shawn! Wait-gonna-ohshitohshit-it's-!" Cory bucks so hard that only his shoulders and left hand remain on the seat, frozen in mid-air and just _pulsing_ with Shawn still in his lap, Shawn lips still on him, tongue still _going_, and God it goes on forever.

By the time Cory slumps down into the seat, his legs ache from the strain and Shawn's back on the passenger side, halfway out the door spitting audibly into the grass. Cory tries to block out the noise, but can't. The roaring in his ears has slowed to a faint drone. All too quickly the fog muzzling his senses lifts and things become clearer. A lot clearer.

Shawn resumes his relaxed position from earlier after yanking the door shut and slipping his jacket back on. "Well," his voice carries the fatigue of a marathon runner, until he coughs wetly to clear it, "that was different."

And that's a bucket of reality Cory refuses to have dumped over his head, so he reaches over to Shawn, who stiffens and _God_, Cory tries not to notice the way those hips roll just a little bit upward when his hand passes over them. He shelves that for later-_or never_-and keeps reaching until he finds the flask along the edge of Shawn's seat.

It's only half full and Cory chugs it all.

At his right, Shawn does nothing but grin and clap him on the back when he gags.

* * *

When he finally makes it home, Cory finds his dad waiting in the driveway with crossed arms and a look that tells him he should probably hire an attorney to get out of this one. Only then does Cory remember-oh right, his driving privileges had been revoked and he wasn't allowed to go anywhere. Right. That.

He faces the consequences like a man. Or maybe like a coward who suddenly fears what the world's capable of and would _prefer _to spend the rest of his life grounded in his room because it's the only safe and normal place left. Whichever.

If his dad smells the alcohol on his breath, he doesn't say anything. Cory thinks it's only because he's been moping around in a stupor all week that his punishment doesn't include blocking phone access.

He ends up showering and brushing his teeth in a daze, thinking. About what? He doesn't know. Every time he tries to put his finger on it, it melts away like a snowflake on his tongue. When he can't sleep, he reaches for the phone.

He's dialed Topanga's number twelve times before she answers. She's mad because it's close to midnight and she's trying to sleep, but still she's talking to him, she doesn't hang up, and that's more than Cory can ask for.

Something inside of him falls back into place. Things become a little more okay.

* * *

Note: As always, if anyone sees any hideous typos or just sloppiness in general, please let me know! :D I appreciate it! Thank you to anyone who stops by to read!


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